The Third-Best Costume in the Entire Third Grade
by Eliot Rosewater
Summary: Stiles has a stomachache and can't find his mother.


**Please note that this takes place pre-series, and Shea is a dog. **

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><p>Stiles knows that something is wrong before he opens his eyes. That stomachache he had yesterday seems to have gone nuclear. Unsticking his face from his pillow that he has drooled on again, he sees that he should be at school right now. It's Friday and they are celebrating Halloween in class today. This upsets Stiles more than his Doomsday stomachache. He has a really badass costume this year, and now no one is going to see it. Maybe if he hurries, he can still get to school in time for the party.<p>

Getting up proves more difficult than he anticipated. The stomachache jumps out of his stomach and spreads to his whole abdomen. A tiny squeak of pain escapes. But this doesn't stop him from wanting to get to school and show off his damn costume. Stiles's mother should have woken him up to go to school. Hopefully she is still around. Where else could she go, really? She had to quit her job last week because of her condition. So why hadn't she woke him up?

Getting gingerly to his feet, Stiles crosses his room slowly. It hurts to walk, but it is the Halloween party today goddamn it. He has been working on this costume for weeks and he will not be denied the jealous look on Scott's face. Stiles shuffles out into the hall and stops to catch his breath. He hadn't counted on it hurting this much. His parents' room looks a lot farther away than it usually does.

"Mom!" he shouts at the door. Maybe she'll come to him and he won't have to go walking around like this. "Mom, are you here? _Mother!_"

But there is no response. Even after he waits three seconds to listen for her footsteps there is nothing. He chews his lip to get out his jitters. Adderall Time is long gone. She always comes running or responds when he calls her Mother instead of Mom. Stiles does the same thing when she calls his given name instead of the nickname.

Huffing in frustration and a little fear, he makes his way toward his parents' bedroom door. The stomachache from hell has moved out of his stomach. Stiles finds that he's curling in on himself. When the door is within reach, he pushes it open and calls for his mother again. She's not there. The bed is made up, which Stiles knows is his mother's doing. Dad always says there's no point in making the bed if he's just going to mess it up again later. Stiles tends to agree. Anyway, the made-up bed tells him that his mother was here last. Dad left first. That means Mom left him here alone. That's never happened before. His parents would never trust him alone in the house. The thought makes his stomach roll.

And that has him shuffling as fast as he can down the hall toward the bathroom. He makes it in time to spit his offering into the porcelain throne. Seeing the sick, he heaves again. Once his stomach is empty, he quickly flushes it away. Stiles shouts for his mother while he sits on the cold tiles for a bit longer. He even calls out to his father despite knowing he's still at the station. The cold felt good for a while, but soon he is shivering and his leg is bouncing up and down. He has to get up before things get more uncomfortable.

So he goes back into the hall and heads for the stairs. They look painful. The thought jumps in his brain that he should just sit down and slide down on his butt. The second he does this, he regrets it. The first step is so jarring that he forgets to put his foot down and slides down the entire staircase. When Stiles comes to rest at the bottom, he is slightly grateful that the pain in his ass distracts him a little from the Stomachache From Hell That Is No Longer In His Stomach. Before getting up he decides to shout for either of his parents some more.

It strikes him as odd that Shea isn't around. She would have come running when she heard him yelling. His mind whirls and puts the pieces together. Stiles loves puzzles even though this particular one is making him nervous. Dad goes to work. Shea sleeps in Stiles's bed but wakes up when his father does. He lets her outside to do her business. His mother wakes up, lets Shea back inside, and calls Stiles to breakfast. He has to go see if the dog is still outside. Stiles groans as he gets up.

As he walks to the backdoor, Stiles thinks that the Flash must feel like everyone around him is moving this slowly all the time. Talk about hell. Shea is scratching at the door and whining by the time Stiles gets there. Groaning, he pulls open the door to let her in. She jumps up on him, all spit and slobber and tongue. For once, Stiles doesn't find this funny. It just hurts. She leads him back to the den after turning in circles. Probably from excitement. She couldn't be trusted alone any more than Stiles could.

He lies down on the couch, right-side up. Shea jumps up next to him even though she's too big and isn't technically allowed on the furniture (Stiles's bed being the obvious exception). Stiles pushes down on the spot on his right where the pain seems to be coming from (since it left his stomach). It hurts when he presses down, and it hurts when he takes the pressure away. It hurts when he doesn't touch it at all. He knows he should call his dad and tell him that he's home alone and currently has the mother of all non-stomachaches. Oh, and his mother is nowhere to be found. But his brain has decided that his biggest problem is that he probably won't get to be at the Halloween party. All that work he's put into his kick-ass costume has gone to waste. Stiles won't get to see Scott's reaction to said costume. He certainly won't get to collect candy that his parents will take away from him the minute he gets home from rabble-rousing with Scott. All this is so upsetting that Stiles just goes back to sleep right there on the couch.

The sound of a door slamming into the wall wakes Stiles up. He's so surprised by it that he sits bolt upright. This, of course, makes him cry out in pain. Shea is no longer beside him. She's barking at whoever just came into the house.

"Stiles!" his father's frantic voice calls. Before Stiles can respond, his father's shoes have pounded into the den. "Jesus," he mutters around a sigh when he sees his son on the couch. "Why aren't you at school?"

"I don't know," he admits truthfully. "When I woke up school had already started and no one was here."

His father squints at him like he doesn't understand. "Mom wasn't here?"

Stiles nods the affirmative. "I don't feel well," he adds helpfully. He thinks his teacher would be proud of him saying 'well' instead of 'good.'

The squinty-eyed look doesn't leave his father's face. If anything, it gets deeper. He puts a hand on Stiles's forehead. Stiles flicks his eyebrows up and down as if that might help somehow.

"You feel warm," his father decides.

"My stomach hurts," he says. "Well, it used to. It moved out of my stomach and into my side." A thought suddenly strikes him. A part of him knows it's absurd, but Stiles has never had a good filter between his brain and his mouth. "You don't think my stomach moved around inside me, do you?"

The edges of his father's lips flip upwards for a moment. His fingers brush through Stiles's hair like they always do when he's trying to placate his son. "No, I don't think your stomach moved."

"Okay. Yeah. I didn't think so either. I don't know why I said it. Stupid. It still hurts, though. Like, really bad. I tried to find Mom when I woke up, because she always knows what to do when stuff like this happens. But I couldn't find her in your room, and then I threw up and slid down the stairs on my butt because I thought it would hurt to walk down. I was wrong. It hurt a lot. Shea was still outside, so I let her in." Stiles sucks in another breath to explain some more, but his father speaks first.

"You got sick?"

"Yeah, when I realized I was home alone. It was _really _gross. You guys never let me stay home alone. When I figured that out I got kind of scared. I didn't know what was going on. I couldn't find anyone, and I know I'm supposed to call the station when I'm in trouble or something, but I had already lain down on the couch with Shea, and I didn't want to get up." Stiles takes a moment to marvel at his run-on sentence. He continues, "I know Shea's not supposed to be on the couch, but she just jumped up and I kind of wanted her there. So don't yell at her, it's my fault. Oh, and have you found Mom? Where did she go?"

His dad just keeps frowning at him. "I don't care that Shea was on the couch," he begins. "I haven't found your mother. The school called to say you didn't show up. I came straight here. I'm going to go make some calls, okay? Stay here. I'll bring you something."

Stiles feels like there's a lot more to say, but doesn't argue when his father walks away. He shakes a little and pulls the throw blanket off the back of the couch to curl up under it. Shea does a turn to trample down the blanket and then flops down with her head on his hip. They sigh through their noses at the same time. Stiles wonders if she has a headache too. Do dogs get headaches?

John makes calls. He makes a lot of calls. None of them are very helpful. No one has seen Claudia all day. They do not know where she is. It makes John worry. Where in hell could his wife have gone? He had furiously tried to understand what her diagnosis meant when they had made it official. He knew that she would become impulsive and reckless, but John had not expected things to happen so suddenly. Was she worse than they thought? There was no way that Claudia was already in a state of mind where she'd leave their son alone in the house with the doors unlocked and the garage door open. His heart pounds in his ears when all the possibilities run through his mind. He has to actually shake himself so that his brain will start working.

All calls made, APB put out, John lets himself have a moment to panic and feel everything that is just below the surface. Mostly, he is scared for his wife. He thinks she must be hurt or lost or worse. Why else would she do this? It is then that he remembers Stiles on the couch. Sick. His sick son has been in the house by himself. John goes back to him with water and baby Tylenol in hand. But Stiles is asleep again. Shea slaps her tail against one of Claudia's throw pillows but doesn't take her head off of Stiles's hip. John pets her to calm himself.

Looking at his son's flushed face, John feels torn. He should be out trying to find Claudia, but he has a sick kid in front him. _Melissa_, he thinks. Of course Melissa. She works so often and has to deal with her husband, but John figures it is worth a try. So he goes back to the phone.

"Hello?" comes Melissa McCall's voice from the speaker.

"Hey, Melissa. It's John. I've got a bit of a problem here."

She doesn't hesitate to say, "What is it?" She is not wary of being asked to do something that she doesn't have to do.

"Claudia's gone missing, and Stiles is here – at home – sick. I hate to ask, but do you think you could keep an eye on him while I try to track her down?"

Melissa, whom both John and Claudia had talked to after the diagnosis had become official, agreed to take his son. Because school would be over soon, John prepares to take Stiles over to the McCall house. His son grunts at him when he tries to wake him up. Nerves a little frayed over the whole missing-wife situation, John has no patience for this. So he swipes Stiles up into his arms. Shea whines when her pillow disappears from under her.

"Ouch," Stiles mumbles in his ear, still half-asleep.

With his son's face pressed against his neck and jaw, the heat coming off his body seems more intense. Stiles clings to him like some sort of monkey and shivers. John frowns and plucks the throw blanket that he was curled under only seconds ago off the couch. He has to yank it out from under Shea's massive bulk before he can wrap it around his son. Distantly, he wants to apologize to the dog for ripping everything out from under her.

"I'm too big for this," Stiles says.

This makes John laugh while he carries him out to the cruiser. Stiles might be eight, but he is all arms and legs. He is just a tangle of limbs and not very heavy limbs at that. He doesn't weigh too much for John to carry around yet, but Stiles definitely doesn't fit on his hip like he used to. He realizes that the day will eventually come when he won't be able to pick up his son anymore. John does not look forward to that day.

He tucks Stiles into the passenger's seat of the car even though he knows that he isn't technically allowed to sit there. His son curls up in the seat in a way that John doesn't think looks very comfortable. But time is short and there is still a mentally ill woman on the loose, so he just clicks the seatbelt around Stiles and promises himself that he'll drive safely to make up for it. Before leaving, John locks up the house and makes sure Shea is taken care of. In no time at all, he is leading Stiles up to Melissa's front door. She is waiting for them on the front porch.

"Thanks again," John says once they're on the same level.

"It's not a problem," Melissa assures him. "Just go find Claudia. Make sure she's okay."

"Yeah. Thank you." He turns to Stiles and hugs him to his chest. Conflicting feelings are still stirring up his brain. The last thing he wants to do is leave his sick son, but these are not normal circumstances. John gives his son a stern look and says, "Don't be causing any trouble, okay?"

Stiles has knotted two corners of Claudia's thrown blanket around his neck so that it flows around him like the capes those damned superheroes he likes so much wear. But he nods to acknowledge the warning. "I won't."

"I'll be back as soon as we find your mom. Call if you need anything. Be good. Feel better." John pulls him in for another hug because he still doesn't want to leave him. "Okay. I better get going. I love you."

"I know." Stiles grins widely at him. "You put that one on a tee for me."

John laughs a little and rolls his eyes. He expects that this will not be the last time his son quotes _Star Wars_. Straightening up, he thanks Melissa again. Then he is on his way.

Melissa ushers Stiles into the house. It has been four years since Stiles met Scott. Melissa is not in the habit of exaggerating, but she thinks the day her son came home with that jittery little boy her whole life changed. By the second year of their friendship, Melissa realized she had a second son whether she wanted one or not. It's hard to predict where a child's first friendship will go, but she is _very_ confident that Scott has found someone that will be his friend for his entire life. Somewhere along the line, Melissa became just as protective of Stiles as she is of Scott. She also noticed that she has become very aware of him whenever he is at her house with Scott lately. Since hearing about Claudia's diagnosis, she finds herself checking him over, making sure nothing is amiss (any more than usual).

When Claudia first told Melissa about the dementia, they had been sitting on the back porch talking while the boys played in the tree that they had both fallen out of countless times. Melissa knew that there was no cure for Claudia's particular brand of dementia. Claudia knew that Melissa knew that. She had asked Melissa to keep an eye on her son when she no longer could. Just like Stiles was Scott's best friend, Claudia had become Melissa's. How many times had they shuffled the boys between the two of them when they needed an emergency sitter? They even shared the same _actual _sitter (the inexplicably responsible Laura Hale) when the two of them wanted to have a night out together. She was the first person Melissa called when her husband had done something dreadful or shown up drunk again. Claudia always knew just what to say and do when she was upset. Her quirks perfectly loosened the sternness that has settled on Melissa as a result of her bumpy marriage and high-stakes job at the hospital. The thought of losing her closest friend and confidant stresses Melissa out almost as much as her husband does.

She gets a good look at Stiles as she leads him to the living room. The nurse in her wants to do an examination, but she knows that it would probably exacerbate the tentative calm Stiles has created. Melissa is very familiar with his impulsiveness and fidgeting. She can tell just by watching him that he has not taken any Adderall today. He is humming and worrying the edge of his blanket between his fingers. Carefully, she steers him to the couch and sits him down. When she doesn't say anything, he smiles at her nervously, not ceasing the humming.

"Your dad said you weren't feeling well," she says.

"Nope," Stiles agrees, making a popping sound when he says it.

"Did they send you home from school?"

That's all it takes to send him into a chatting fit. "No. I didn't go to school. Mom usually wakes me up, but she didn't. I woke up all by myself. School had already started. I think this is the only time I've ever been sad to miss school. The Halloween party is today. I've been working on a _really _cool costume, but now I won't get to show anyone. Do you think I'll be able to go trick-or-treating with Scott later? I don't feel that bad. When I woke up, I felt really weird. My stomach hurt yesterday, but now my side does. I asked Dad if it was possible that my stomach moved, but he said that he didn't think that's what happened. I knew that it was dumb, but I asked anyway. After I threw up, I felt better. Mom used to say that when you're not feeling good that you should go poop. She said pooping usually makes people feel better. But I just threw up, so maybe pooping _and _throwing up can make people feel better."

"Tell you what," Melissa says. "Let me take your temperature. That way we'll know whether or not you have a fever. If it's normal, then you can probably still go trick-or-treating."

Stiles agrees and keeps tittering about Halloween as she collects the well-stocked first aid kit. Melissa shakes her head at the number of times she's needed to pull it out when Scott and Stiles are together. She doesn't really need the thermometer to know that he has a fever, but it would be good to know just how high that fever is. Though she didn't say it, Melissa is also very confident that Stiles won't be up to scouring the neighborhood for candy later. _Stomach bug_, she decides before even returning to Stiles with the thermometer.

"Open," she says while waving it around.

He frowns at it but complies. The whole time they wait for the thermometer to beep, Stiles looks like he is bursting to say something. The humming picks up again. Melissa wonders if he feels the need to do things just because he knows he's not supposed to be doing them. That would certainly explain a lot. Then again, she also knows that he has impulsive tendencies with pretty much everything. Her thoughts are interrupted when the thermometer beeps. It is Melissa's turn to frown. The screen impassively reads 101.6°F. Her hand touches his forehead as though it is more accurate than the instrument.

"Not good?" Stiles asks.

Melissa nods. "You're up there. I'll get you something. We'll see if we can't bring it down. I'll make you something to eat, too."

"That's okay," he says before she gets up. "I'm not really hungry."

What he means, she knows, is that he thinks he'll vomit again. Melissa acknowledges this, and goes to get what she needs. He accepts the Tylenol from her, but tells her again that he doesn't want to eat anything. She leaves a bottle of Gatorade beside him in the hope that he will drink it eventually. If he's going to take anything, she'd rather he take something that will rehydrate him better than regular water. Before long he is asleep under Claudia's blanket again. Melissa goes back to cleaning up the house, folding and sorting the laundry that has piled up again, and making a list of things she needs to pick up at the grocery store. She checks up on him occasionally, but he sleeps heavily.

Scott busts through the door while she is taking an inventory of the refrigerator. He is still in his Ash Ketchum costume. She waves to him from the kitchen. Bag _fwump_ing to the ground, he stomps in. The look on his face is that which precedes what Melissa calls the Whiney Voice. Scott isn't usually whiney. That's why it is so easy to know when he's about to get that way. It's so rare that you can't miss it. Before he can even draw a breath to start his whine, Melissa puts a finger to her lips and points to the living room. Scott's brows draw together, and he looks around the wall to see his sleeping friend.

"He's not feeling well," she tells her son in a low voice. After a moment, she leads him towards the island, helping Scott onto one of the stools. "Now, what's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" Scott says only a tiny bit quieter than usual. "Mom, today was the Halloween party! Stiles blew me off! My costume is awesome." He gestures to the ridiculous getup that he's wearing. Suffice it to say that Melissa does not _get _Pokémon. "Everyone thought it was cool. I got third place for best costume in the entire third grade! I had to spend the whole party with Jackson!"

"I thought you were friends with Jackson," she says confusedly.

"I am! Well, sort of. Danny is Jackson's best friend. And Jackson was mad that he had to spend the party with me instead. He was really mean! And he kept making fun of my costume. I think he was just jealous, but it still kind of ruined the party. We lost all the games because he didn't want to be my partner."

"I'm sorry," Melissa offers. Most of her attention has returned to the inventory she'd been taking before Scott got home.

"Why is Stiles here?" Scott asks after a beat. He always gets over the whiney stage quickly.

"Because he isn't feeling well and his parents are busy."

"He's still going to come with us tonight, right?"

"I don't know. We'll see how he feels when he wakes up and what his dad thinks when he sorts things out."

They both know that means _no_.

"Does it have to do with his mom being sick?"

The question is innocent, but it makes Melissa pause. She recovers quickly and says, "No, honey. His mom is fine."

"Oh. Okay."

She knows that he wants to go in and talk to his friend. He wants to brag about having the third-best costume in their grade and complain about Jackson with someone that will get it. Scott wants someone to understand how awesome his costume is. Melissa puts peanut butter on a few sticks of celery and drops a few raisins in the peanut butter. _Ants on a Log_. She remembers that Claudia told her about bringing it as a snack to Stiles's preschool once. All the kids licked the peanut butter off, flicked the raisins at each other, and tossed the celery in the trash. Melissa knows that Scott will do the same thing, but she slides the plate over to him anyway. Stiles is the only kid Melissa had ever seen that eats the whole thing without deconstructing it. He doesn't seem to mind green food. Scott fights it tooth and nail.

"You can go in there," she says sternly. "Don't bother him, though."

"I won't," Scott assures her, grabbing his plate.

Melissa knows better than to trust him. Sure enough, as soon as she hears the plate slide onto the coffee table, there is a definite slapping sound. Stiles comes awake with a cry of pain. It doesn't sound right. Scott is calling for her, but she's already in the living room with eyebrows furrowed.

"I think something is wrong," Scott says. He backs away to let her have better access to him.

Melissa sits beside Stiles. He is curling in on himself with his hands hovering above his side. When her hand reaches for his face, she can feel the heat before even making contact. She gets him to open his eyes and look at her. "Stiles," she says with complete calm. "What's wrong?"

"Ow," is all he says.

She looks to Scott for an explanation next. A shrug is all she gets.

"I just patted him to wake him up," he innocently admits.

"Where?"

"Here," Scott says, pushing the same spot. Stiles, obviously, cries again.

"Stop doing that," Melissa instructs her son. Scott takes a step back. She pushes the blanket off of Stiles and slides his shirt up. To the untrained eye, his abdomen looks like a regular slab of pale, eight-year old flesh. But Melissa has trained eyes, and she can see the swelling on his right side. "Stiles," she clearly states. He looks at her with big eyes. "I'm going to push on your side. Tell me where it hurts."

Brokenly, he says, "Okay."

First, Melissa presses down on a place she knows is too high. She moves closer to the spot she knows is the problem slowly. When he tenses up, Melissa presses down to be sure. Several things happen at the same time then. Stiles makes a lot of pained noises, the phone starts to ring, and the front door bursts open.

"How come you told me not to do that, but you just did?" Scott asks annoyed.

_Not a stomach bug_, she amends.

"Stiles, what kind of pain is it?" she asks with her voice raised to be heard over the ringing phone. "Is it dull and achy or sharp?"

"Sharp," he chokes out.

_Of course_. The footsteps of her husband clomp in the hall. The ringing hasn't ceased and Scott is whining about something. Before she can stop herself, Melissa shouts, "_Rafael, would you answer the damned phone?!_"

The only response she gets is the stomping of his feet towards the landline in the kitchen. The ringing finally stops. Melissa feels like she can breathe easier again. It calms her and clears her head.

She sits Stiles up and says, "Get up, kid. We have to go."

"Where?"

"Yeah, where?" Scott chimes in.

"_You_," she says directly at Scott, "aren't going anywhere." Melissa turns back to Stiles. "You've got to get up so I can take you to the hospital."

"Why?" Stiles says at the same time Scott asks, "Why can't I come?"

"Because you're sick," she explains at the same time as she ignores her son. Without waiting for a response, Melissa guides Stiles to his feet, cape-blanket and all, and gets him moving toward the front door. He favors his left and moves incredible slowly. Her patience snaps, and she just picks him up. Immediately, she wonders how John carries him around so easily. Stiles squirms in protest, only making things more painful for himself. But she only needs to get him to the car. That much she can manage. Scott is still following her, yapping protests.

Her husband stops her when she reaches the door. "Stilinski called and said they found his wife. She's fine. She was missing?"

Melissa rolls her eyes and sighs in relief at the same time. "Good. Tell him that I think Stiles has appendicitis, and I'm taking him to the hospital."

"I already hung up."

There goes her patience again. "Well, then _call him back_, Rafael! Jesus Christ, this is his _son_."

She doesn't wait for him to respond. She gets her charge into the backseat of her car, and when she turns around she almost trips over Scott. Melissa swears that the mere presence of her husband in the house puts her in a bad mood. Which is why she barks at Scott, "Get back in the house!"

Her son ignores that. "Is Stiles okay?"

"Scott, get back in the house! He's fine."

Again, he makes no move to obey. "Will he still go trick-or-treating with us?"

She sighs harshly at him in frustration. "No. He won't go trick-or-treating with you. Now, _get back in the house_."

"But Dad's in there and he's mad. And, Mom, it's _Halloween_. Stiles and I always go together!"

"Scott, so help me god . . ."

"_Fine!_" He turns on his heel and stomps back inside.

She'll have to deal with that, Melissa realizes. But that is for later. She gets behind the wheel and drives to the hospital. Often, she glances in the rearview mirror to look at Stiles. Every now and then she'll ask if he's okay, but he always says some variant of 'it hurts.' Melissa gets him inside the hospital, and bullies the staff into admitting him quickly.

A few hours later, Stiles is in a bed that is too big for him. At least, it is in John's opinion. For the most part, he is quiet. This, above anything else, unnerves him the most. That is not hard to do. The day was very stressful and it does not seem to be letting up. Claudia is lying beside their son in the bed, both of them under the blanket Stiles had taken from home that morning. For a long time Claudia just ran her fingers through his hair and apologized over and over in his ear. Stiles looks content, considering the circumstances. No doubt this is due to his mother's presence. That, or Melissa got the doctors to give him the good stuff. John eyes the IV drip suspiciously.

Putting a hand on his son's calf, John asks, "Still doing okay?"

Stiles blinks at him. "It's Halloween."

Definitely the drugs.

He has told him this several times since he was admitted. John has also been informed how many tiles there are on the ceiling and how many red cars have driven by outside. Not to mention that there are 75 slats in the blinds that cover the window. John wishes he had some Adderall with him. He supposes that Melissa could wrangle some, but he can't seem to get himself up from the chair beside Stiles. His son counts to busy his mind and calm himself down. John used to joke with Claudia that it was because she kept working even into the late months of her pregnancy. (She worked in computer science, developing accounting software.) Since Stiles slept on and off all day, he can't fall back asleep now. The energy has built up all day and is itching to be let out. Literally. Stiles scratches himself if he can't get it out any other way. They had to remember to keep his nails short.

Not for the first time, John thinks of Stiles's pillow at home. Maybe he'd get some more rest if he had it. That, or the weighted blanket Claudia's sister had made Stiles for Christmas two years ago. That blanket was magic. Just lay it across Stiles's lap and he could actually sit still long enough to finish his homework. John wishes for it even more when he sees his son's legs twitch and kick just to be moving. Claudia notices it too and threads her fingers through his hair again. That sometimes works. Whatever they gave him for the pain eventually—_finally_—puts him out.

Once he's asleep, Claudia says, "What are we going to do?"

John doesn't know. For the life of him, he wishes he did. His wife needs to go home and get herself cleaned up. They had gotten a call from the next town over late in the afternoon telling them that they'd found her. She had driven there to get her hair cut. When John turned up in the cruiser, she was trying to fill Stiles's prescriptions at a shop next door, not remembering that she'd done it two days ago. As soon as she saw John coming toward her, something in her face changed. All at once, she seemed to come back to her senses. They took her back to the station. John was about to drive her home when he'd gotten Melissa's message about Stiles. They'd gone straight to the hospital instead.

Now, though, John is at a loss. Claudia needs to go home, but he doesn't trust her to drive. So that means he has to take her. This is something he definitely does not want to do. Someone has to stay with Stiles. John won't leave him alone in a hospital. He's already left him once today.

"_John!_" Claudia's voice lashes at him. She's on the verge of tears. "What do we do?"

Without taking his eyes off Stiles, he says, "I'll take you home so you can get cleaned up. Then we'll come right back."

They both know that was not quite what she was asking. He wants to look away when she pulls Stiles closer to her chest and kisses his forehead. She whispers in Polish to him, words he doesn't understand. John can practically see the guilt dripping off her words. Stiles struggles in her arms, and she lets him go.

"The sooner we leave, the sooner we can get back," she says resignedly.

Obviously, neither of them is fond of the plan. Their mutual moping is interrupted by a knock at the door. John turns in his seat to see Melissa closing the door behind her.

"Hey, sorry. How's he doing?" she says in a low voice and not venturing too deeply into the room.

"Asleep again," John says.

Claudia follows that up saying, "Have you been here the whole time? Since he was admitted?"

Melissa looks guilty. That's all the Stilinskis need to know their answer.

"Melissa, it's your day off," Claudia says in her mother-voice. "You should be at home. You're here too much as it is."

She waves a hand dismissively. "It's Halloween. I'd just be answering the door every five minutes. Rafael went out with Scott and the neighbors. I don't mind. Almost wish I _was _working."

Claudia purses her lips at her friend. "Well, we were just going to run home so I can fix myself up. Thank you so much for taking care of him. You have no idea how much it means to me."

"Oh, it's not a big deal. You would have done the same for Scott. Both of you aren't going, are you? I could drive you," she says to Claudia. "If John wanted to stay with Stiles."

John feels like he's just been thrown a lifeline. "Would you? You absolutely don't have to do this. You've already done so much."

"Nonsense. I don't mind at all. You've both had a long day. It's nothing I wouldn't do for family."

Both Stilinskis look ready to cry. Melissa waves Claudia over. She kisses Stiles's temple and promises the sleeping boy that she'll be back as soon as she can. Then she lets Melissa herd her away. John hopes she'll be back before Stiles wakes up. He can't help but imagine the look that will be on his face when he wakes up without her.

Alas, the world is not anyone's to command. Before long Stiles is groaning into the pillows. John moves to sit on the edge of the bed and rub circles into his back. He hates how small his son feels, how feverish.

"Don't feel good?" he asks when the groans subside.

"Don't feel _well_," Stiles corrects him.

The comment makes him snort softly.

"Help me," he says, trying to sit up. Against his better judgment, John obliges. Claudia used to tell him that he was too soft on Stiles when he was a toddler. Anything he wanted, anything he cried for, John always got for him. Legs pretzeled beneath him, it doesn't take long for Stiles's spine to hunch over.

"All right?" John asks.

His son frowns and draws Claudia's blanket tight around his shoulders. Stiles shakes his head no. Doesn't take any words for John to know he's not talking about the appendicitis. His son is too perceptive for his own good. He wouldn't be surprised if Stiles was more informed about what was going to happen to his wife in the coming months than he was. Being hospitalized on Halloween was not what was upsetting his son. If only.

Quietly, John says, "Hey. We'll figure it out. Everything will be okay."

"No it won't," Stiles moans. "She's going to die."

Because he can't refute that, John tucks Stiles under his arm and holds him there. His arms cling around John's waist. His son pushes his forehead into John's ribs as if they might give away and allow him access to safer place. When the artillery is falling all around you, the safest place to be is in your foxhole, pressed as low to the ground as possible. He wonders if Stiles knows this – of course he knows this – because it sure feels like he's trying to get away from something just as threatening as explosive shells and shrapnel. Belatedly, John also wonders when he started comparing his son's behavior to his time in the service.

* * *

><p>Two days later, Scott doesn't hesitate to bounce right up onto the hospital bed. Stiles curled his legs up to make room for him at the foot of the bed, so he took it as an invitation.<p>

"Hey," Stiles says, the sound muffled by his pillow.

"Hey," Scott echoes. He tosses the bag he brought with him at Stiles. "Here. From us."

He watches the smile unfurl across Stiles's pale face. The smile makes Scott smile.

"Halloween candy," Stiles whispers. He frowns at Scott in that way that is actually a smile.

"You're welcome," he says before his friend can protest. "Did they really cut stuff out of you?"

"Yeah. I wasn't awake when they did, but look!" Mind taken off the gift, Stiles pulls up the shirt his mother brought him from home to reveal a bandage on his right side. Not even caring if he's allowed to do it (unlike Scott), Stiles pulls the bandage off to show him the incision. "It's kind of gross, isn't it?"

"Not really," Scott decides after looking at it for a bit. Stiles has always been more squeamish than him. "I mean, when it's all stitched up like that it just looks like a seam on a blanket or something."

Stiles puts the bandage back in place and pulls his shirt back down. He's still lying on his left side, not moving since he had made room for Scott. "I asked them if I could keep whatever they took out of me. You know, like in a jar? I think they were going to let me, but Dad said that I couldn't before any of the doctors got to answer. I think it would have been neat."

"But what would you do with it?"

"I don't know." As if to emphasize it, he shrugs with one shoulder. "It would just be cool to have. When a teacher tells me to 'look in the appendix' I can tell her I left it at home or something."

Scott snorts. "That's dumb."

"What does the hospital do with things that they cut out of people? Does your mom know?"

"I don't know. I bet she does."

"You should ask her. I bet they have a room full of things floating in pickle jars. Like a bunch of eyeballs and tongues."

He makes a face at his friend. "Why would they be cutting people's tongues out?"

"I guess that would be weird," Stiles concedes. "Maybe it was infected?"

Now it's Scott's turn to shrug. Poking Stiles's leg, he asks, "Are you okay? Aside from the . . ." Scott mimes a slashing motion across his abdomen.

The answer comes too fast. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You seem different."

Puzzled expression in place, he responds, "I feel the same."

"Okay. You'd tell me if something wasn't okay, right?"

"Sure."

Scott nods once. "Did I tell you that I got the third-best costume in the entire third grade?"


End file.
